somepoorsoul | (no subject)

For the first time since he moved into the apartment above Aramis and Porthos, Athos’ television is on.

No, Athos has not entirely avoided the most ubiquitous form of modern entertainment, for his friends have coaxed him into watching all sorts of ridiculous tales on the flickering screen in the lower apartment. Some, he might even - quite grudgingly - admit to having enjoyed. But he has steered clear of the dull black box in his own rooms, and whatever mysteries it contained.

The blame for its return to life now can be laid squarely on the cat. What the damn creature had done, Athos has no idea, but he had emerged from his bedroom to find lights and noise brightening the apartment, and the feline standing innocently in the center of the room. No amount of shooing or coaxing had moved the cat or turned off the television, and Athos had finally given up, settling on the sofa with a book and proceeding to pretend that those flickering lights aren’t distracting him in the least.

The cat, on the other hand, comfortably curled in Athos’ lap, seems quite pleased with the entire situation.

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They want him. They want him as part of this bond that they have forged, indelible as anything between the two of them. If what Aramis suggests is unorthodox and difficult to comprehend, then is that not part of the power that has always existed in their friendship? Is it not right, somehow, that they make their own sort of life, and damn the rest?

Understanding rocks him back as though he has been struck a blow, and Athos nearly flees from the excess of feeling that sees fit to overwhelm him after all. This is not the first time he has asked himself such questions; nearly ten years ago he had said damn the rest and pledged to marry Anne, never mind the scandal and disgrace that might come. Such blessed possibility has not laid out before him since, with hope so tangible. And Athos is terrified.

He slots what scraps of his stoicism he can gather back into place, for it is either that or collapse under the weight of memory, though he clings all the tighter to Aramis’ hand. “I need to think,” he admits, hating how his voice breaks slightly. Swiftly he adds, “Understand, it is not you or Porthos that I mistrust.” Athos’ own heart is the truly dangerous thing. Experience has taught him that much.

"I know," Aramis assures him. He thinks of Isabelle, of Marsac, of the fissures they'd carved in him and the long years it took to again feel whole. "The heart takes time to heal, but it is our most resilient organ."

Aramis squeezes his hand. "You will see. Now." Lifting Athos' hand for a last kiss, Aramis releases him and smiles. "I will leave you to your thoughts, or to Space Hospital. Whichever proves the most intriguing."

For a moment, Athos feels as though he has forgotten to stand without Aramis’ support; he takes a breath and finds his footing and steadiness, first clasping his hands behind his back, and then, seeing Aramis’ tie pushed off-kilter by their embrace, reaching out to straighten it.

“Tell the tailor that the suits are perfect,” he says with decided wryness, aware that that goes without saying. Clearing his throat as he steps back, he adds more gently, “Thank you.”

He owes Aramis and Porthos the world, and dearly hopes they know it - for their patience, and their steadiness, and yes, their love.

"They ought to be," says Aramis with a wink, the rakish effect somewhat spoiled by the large, happy grin he wears. "You paid enough for them."

He cannot help himself a last, needless touch to Athos' hair, fingers trailing against his shoulder after. "You are welcome. Come to dinner, yes? Tomorrow, if not tonight. You have my word we will only eat."

“I did, didn’t I?” Athos knows he must leave this room, and step beyond the reach of Aramis’ searching, gentle touch, but this simple departure might as well be the most difficult thing he has ever done. The thought that Aramis and Porthos will be waiting for him when he is ready gives him the courage he needs. “I will be there tonight,” he says without hesitation, though his stomach does a flip. He suspects that Aramis will waste no time in telling Porthos about this, and Porthos will look at him differently when they see each other again. With more disappointment, perhaps, at the further rejection. Or maybe with more hope.

“Don’t let Porthos see you wearing that. He shall rip it off you, and then all my money will have gone to waste.” With that parting shot, Athos leaves Aramis alone with his thoughts.